


Pyrexia

by Chromi



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, First Meetings, Gen, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Light-Hearted, M/M, Roger is a Terrible Patient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/pseuds/Chromi
Summary: It seemed absurd, in a way, for this surgeon – Mr. Newgate – to be thanking him for rushing to the hospital after a brief, stuttered call to his boss that he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in today.What else was Ace supposed to have done? Refused to come in and talk about Roger’s sudden decline and call of the paramedics? No – maybe this was the surgeon’s way of simply breaking the ice.Or;When Roger is admitted to hospital for emergency surgery, Ace is called in as his next of kin. Roger is, most unfortunately, a dreadful patient on the surgical ward post-op, and Ace can't help but grow fond of the junior doctor in charge of taking care of him.
Relationships: Gol D. Roger & Portgas D. Ace, Masked Deuce & Portgas D. Ace, Masked Deuce/Portgas D. Ace
Comments: 17
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally uploaded this in February this year, but deleted it with the intention of completing it, then re-submitting as one long document. I then forgot about it, and was reminded of it again today. I'm going back to my original plan of having chapters, so... sorry it was deleted ;;;
> 
> Note: this is based on my experiences of hospitals in my country, so they won't necessarily tie up with what happens in American hospitals (such as the grading system used for doctors/surgeons). In my country, consultant surgeons' titles are Mr/Mrs/Miss, whereas medical consultants are Dr. Surgical registrars (pre-consultant level doctors) are still known as Dr. Junior doctors (as Deuce is) are not treated with the same level of respect as a surgeon is (for obvious pecking order reasons), and they rotate through specialties on a six-monthly basis.

Ace’s knee bounced on the spot where he sat, nerves starting to show in earnest as the seconds wore on. The chair was a hard, unfriendly plastic, providing him with no semblance of comfort at a time where even the smallest of gestures would have been welcomed. But, he figured as he ran his fingers through his hair with a low, tremulous sigh, _comfort_ wasn’t really the priority here. Not for the relatives, in any case.

The small consultation room that the ward clerk had herded him into on his presentation to the reception desk, flushed and sweaty, had a miserable, cold feeling to it, as if it were deliberately designed as such to prepare families and loved ones for the upcoming bad news that surely followed being summoned to the ward via a phone call of _you should probably come straight away._ A tiny room where only three chairs and a shoe rack, of all things, furnished the white walls and vinyl flooring, along with six beaten up-looking lockers that bore stickers with names scribbled on. Maybe they belonged to some of the nurses, Ace mused absently in a bid to keep his mind dwelling on listening for the approach of footsteps carrying bad news toward him, or perhaps they were the junior doctors’. He somehow doubted that the surgeons would ever accept such tired-looking lockers to house their lavish, expensive belongings.

A gentle knock at the door caused Ace to startle violently and stand, hand jumping back up to nervously slide fingers through his hair once again. The door swung open with a creak to admit three clinicians, led by a man who had to be one of the surgeons. Tall, broad and blond, the man exuded confidence and command of the type that made Ace feel immediately that he could trust him, that this man was someone who could promise to save a life and _deliver_. That this surgeon - there was no way he was anything _but -_ in his crisp pale blue shirt and satin navy tie, flanked on either side by his colleagues, was the man who had undoubtedly operated on Ace’s father.

“Ace Gold?” The surgeon asked with a kind smile; one so genuine that Ace almost didn’t sneer at the mistake in his name. His name was _Portgas_ , he wanted to say, his late mother’s maiden name. Not _Gold_. However, he nodded and took the hand proffered to him, returning the surgeon’s firm, steady shake. “I believe you were informed over the phone about your father?” Again, Ace nodded. “My name is Marco Newgate. I was the surgeon on call overnight and performed your father’s surgery this morning. Thank you for coming in at such short notice.”

It seemed absurd, in a way, for this surgeon – Mr. Newgate – to be thanking him for rushing to the hospital after a brief, stuttered call to his boss that he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in today.

 _(Not to worry!_ Edward Thatch, the head chef at The Moby Dick, had assured once he had yawned away the fog of sleep under Ace’s frantic explanation, _I’ll manage without you for a few days, somehow. Go to your dad, and don’t worry about coming in for the rest of the week. Family’s important, lad!)_

What else was Ace supposed to have done? Refused to come in and talk about Roger’s sudden decline and call of the paramedics? No – maybe this was the surgeon’s way of simply breaking the ice.

“This is my registrar, Dr. Robin Nico,” the surgeon continued, gesturing to the woman on his right. Exceptionally beautiful, Ace noted as he took her hand too, wearing a smart plum-colored dress with black heels that clicked when she moved. “Dr. Nico began the surgery and assisted throughout. And this,” Mr. Newgate now introduced the third of their party, a young man in mint green surgical scrubs, “is Deuce, one of the first-year junior doctors. He and Dr. Nico will be primarily responsible for your father’s care during his stay on the ward, along with the nurses.”

The grip offered by the junior doctor was not as strong as that of the surgeon or registrar, and upon glancing at his face, Ace almost felt sorry for the young man. This doctor looked exhausted, his eyes bearing dark, heavy circles beneath them that spoke of very little sleep for an extended period of time, yet he still offered Ace a reassuring smile. He had to be around the same age as Ace, perhaps a year or two older, and was, Ace couldn’t help but notice through the haze of worry that clouded his mind, rather good-looking. He pushed his thick-framed glasses further up his nose when the surgeon indicated that they sit, dropping Ace’s gaze the instant it was no longer required to be held.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Ace said, blinking back to Mr. Newgate where he remained standing, hands on his hips in a perfect image of a man relaxed and in control, “I know none of you have much free time, so I appreciate it.”

He had no idea what else he was supposed to say under these circumstances.

Ace’s thanks were met with a kind smile. “Your father was brought in by ambulance in the early hours of the morning with severe abdominal pain and vomiting,” Mr. Newgate recapped what Ace had been told on the phone, “and was admitted for emergency surgery after imaging showed that he had a blockage in his large intestine caused by it becoming twisted. The surgery went without complications, but your father is going to need to stay here for a couple of weeks to recover.” Mr. Newgate frowned, suddenly looking serious, and Ace couldn’t help but wonder if he was perhaps recalling the surgery itself. “I must stress that if he hadn’t called when he did, then your father would have been in serious trouble. I am… _amazed_ that he didn’t call sooner, in fact.”

That made sense – Ace couldn’t help but huff a small laugh, despite how his hands had started to shake and he felt keenly sick all of a sudden. “He never tells anyone when he isn’t well,” Ace said, voice coming as tremulous as he suddenly felt all over, “I didn’t even know that anything was going on. The first I heard of this was when some doctor called me and told me to get here ASAP.”

“That was me,” Deuce, the junior doctor, piped up, and now that he spoke, Ace recognised his voice as that belonging to the doctor on the phone, “it would have normally been Mr. Newgate’s secretary who called you – she has a much better phone manner than I do – but it _was_ 4am, so…”

Left unsaid, yet communicated in the slight curve of Deuce’s lips into a smile fought back with effort, was how Ace had initially answered the call with a loud _fuck off_ before hanging up. Ace was now, admittedly, infinitely grateful to this tired-looking doctor for persevering through his half-asleep snarl of _what time do you call this? I’m not buying your shit_ before he was able to get a word in edgeways and explain that actually, his father was being prepped for emergency surgery, so maybe he should listen to what he had to say.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, yet Ace felt acutely humbled as he looked from junior to registrar to consultant surgeon. They had all been here throughout the night, all working tirelessly to help save his idiot of a father from something that he should have acted upon sooner. Chest swelling with gratitude as he looked up to hold the surgeon’s cool, cobalt gaze once again, Ace felt a little overcome by what they had done.

“This is serious, isn’t it?” Ace asked quietly. “You don’t call family in so early in the morning for most things, right? Even if they are emergencies?”

“It was,” Dr. Nico said at once, her voice ringing strong and cutting across Mr. Newgate when he opened his mouth to respond, “and it could have been far worse. We wanted his next of kin informed immediately, should the worst have happened. It was touch-and-go for a while, but there were no complications as far as the surgery is concerned, so from here on out it will depend on your father’s ability to recover.”

“There’s no sense in trying to dress this up as anything other than what it is,” Mr Newgate started, nodding. “A twisted intestine of the degree that your father had – and the extent of the blockage – would have been fatal had he waited much longer,” he reiterated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hip jutting out, “if he had called in later today instead, then the extent of the damage would have been far more severe. This is a fast-paced problem that evolves over a matter of days rather than weeks, by the way. If you’re thinking that he knew something was critically wrong for a while before making the call, then you need to know that this wouldn’t have been the case. Your father would have felt unwell, yes, but not to the degree that would have caused panic straight away. So please, when you see him, don’t go too hard on him.”

How could the surgeon tell? Was he that easy to read? Or was this the response that this man had seen time and again where loved ones of patients with Roger’s condition made themselves feel guilty for not recognising something was amiss until it proved near fatal for them?

“Can I see him?” Ace asked tentatively, directing his question to Mr. Newgate. “The surgery’s over, right? Seeing as you’re here, it must be. So he’s— I can—” the feverish nerves that gripped and twisted at Ace’s stomach seemed to increase all of a sudden under the prospect of seeing Roger so vulnerable – a man so powerful and sure as he, reduced to a hospital gown and IV drips snaking their way into his veins, felt intrusively _wrong_.

“He’s recovering from the anaesthetic at the moment,” Mr. Newgate said gently, more than likely picking up on Ace’s nerves, “but he will be brought to this ward shortly. You can see him then. In the meantime, you’re more than welcome to stay here, or go get a coffee from downstairs; Deuce can give you a call when your father arrives.”

Deuce, Ace noticed, did not succeed in hiding his displeasure in being given a task that would be better suited to the ward clerk.

The surgical team rose to leave when Ace assured them that he had no further questions left to ask, the two seniors shaking his hand in turn before Mr. Newgate and Dr. Nico left, leaving their junior alone with Ace briefly.

“Thank you for contacting me earlier. You should get some sleep,” Ace said to Deuce without thinking as he shook his hand too, this time noting how pink the whites of his eyes looked, “you look like shit.”

Maybe it was the fact that they seemed to be around the same age, or possibly because he didn’t exude that crisp air of a _surgeon_ , or perhaps it was due to the manner in which only Deuce hadn’t been introduced by surname, but Ace felt markedly more relaxed around him in comparison to the other two. Relatable, almost, and certainly that miniscule source of comfort that Ace had been longing for since entering the tiny room, offering (without knowing, certainly) a small hint of warmth among the dreary gray and white.

Or perhaps Ace was just seeing whatever he wanted to see in these circumstances, reaching for warmth where this unknown doctor was designated for providing only clinically detached formalities.

Deuce’s smile looked markedly more like a grimace, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “We’re really short staffed at the moment,” he said in a pained voice that managed to tug at Ace’s heart, even amid the worry for Roger, “so I won’t be done here until its dark out, probably. There’s no one to cover my shift today, even if I ask.”

“Is that legal?” Ace asked with a frown, opening the door to the noise of the busy general surgery ward beyond, “can they make you do a night shift _and_ a day shift back to back?”

“I wasn’t on the night shift, technically,” Deuce’s lip curled in disgust at the system that abused the good will of all junior staff, “I was on call in the sleep room. I got bleeped to come help assess your father in the ED before he was admitted under Dr. Nico. Who _is_ now going to go home and sleep,” he added with an almost wistful sigh. “Oh, but it’s okay!” Deuce hastened to soothe the moment Ace’s face dropped into a look of guilt, “this is part of the job – it happens every week! I’m not blaming your father at all; I’m really glad he came in when he did. His health is far more important than my sleep!”

But as he watched Deuce head down to the end of the ward to begin the ward round with the rest of the surgical team, taking off his glasses to rub furiously at his eyes and slap his cheeks to wake himself up, Ace felt a great, leaping stab of remorse for the young doctor… and all doctors just like him.

* * *

Roger, it transpired when Ace entered the side room that contained him the next morning, was a terrible patient. Horrific, in fact. The worst kind that anyone working in a ward could ask for, outside of those who spontaneously vomited or otherwise voided themselves of bodily secretions.

Because Roger refused to admit that he was in need of care. Following major abdominal surgery. For a problem that would have killed him, had he delayed in calling for help.

“You had a laparotomy _yesterday_ ,” Deuce explained yet again, clearly under the impression that if he repeated himself continuously then the words might sink in and Roger would behave himself, “so you can’t be moving around yet, you’re not ready for it.”

“Yeah?” Roger grumbled, practically wrestling with the junior doctor and the two nurses that accompanied him in trying to keep their most challenging patient in his damn bed, “well, I don’t fully understand what that _means_ , baby doc, so if you’ll excuse my lack of concern—”

“Your entire abdomen was opened up and you had approximately five people stick their hands in you over the course of four hours,” Deuce sounded tired as he explained, keeping a hand on Roger's shoulder as he tried to sit up yet again, “they untwisted your bowel and clamped it, removed a section, and then sewed you up nice and tight again.”

This, Ace could tell with ease, was a conversation, or part of a conversation, that they had had at least once. Probably more, if he knew his father well, which he unfortunately did. His stubbornness was legendary within the family and outside too, often getting him into trouble where a simple apology would suffice. And here, now, in the hospital with a gown drawn taut across his broad chest, his bare feet kicking out from under the thick blanket before the nurses could stop him, Roger was doing his absolute best to show himself at his absolute worst, it seemed.

“Don't _restrain_ me, boy,” Roger snarled, eyeing Deuce's hand at his shoulder, “is that even allowed? Is it? Are you permitted to hold down your patients whenever you see fit?”

“I can if it stops them from popping their stitches and bleeding to death,” Deuce growled right back, not letting up under Roger's fierce glare, “which is exactly what is going to happen if you don't calm down and let me take care of you.”

“Meaning?”

“ _Meaning_ you’ll bleed internally into your intestines and abdominal cavity, and you’ll have to go back to theater, and I will have to fill in a lot of paperwork and call a lot of very angry people to explain _why_ you’re back after barely 24 hours.”

Roger considered this for a moment, allowing the nurses on either side of him to tuck his legs back under the covers. He was sweating profusely, Ace noticed from his spot in the doorway, leaning against it with his arms folded and an amused grin spread across his lips. An effect of the surgery, most likely, and something that Mr. Newgate had warned about when he had caught up with Ace in the afternoon ward round yesterday. Patients tired extremely easily following major surgery, and Roger was not going to be an exception to this case. Honestly, though, it made Ace feel a little better, watching his father calm down from floundering helplessly against the combined effort of the three who were just trying to take care of him. he needn't have worried after all – he could see that Deuce was staying true to the word he had given when Ace had gone back to see Roger the day before.

It had been Deuce who had met Ace at the locked ward doors the previous day on his return, releasing them with a swipe of his badge to the monitor from the inside to admit Ace clutching two coffees – one for himself, and one for the junior doctor who looked like he was about to collapse from sleep deprivation. It had been exceptionally sweet – a stark contrast to the bitter coffee that he had taken from Ace – how Deuce's tired expression had lit up upon being offered such a simple, mundane gesture. With a newfound spring in his step and a smile that materialised from nowhere, Deuce had chattered incessantly to Ace on their way down to Roger's room about how his father was doing, how amazing it was that he had so much energy already just mere hours following surgery, how long his incision into his abdomen was...

And Deuce had made sure to stress to Ace just how much care he was going to give to Roger, and how, as an emergency admission, Roger was his top priority for the next week.

 _Patients who go through such major surgery are at risk of post-op complications,_ Deuce had explained in a whisper just outside of Roger's room, leaning in close and causing Ace’s heart rate to spike, _more so than routine procedures, in any case. It's absolutely vital that he doesn't move much for as long as he can stand it. We’re really concerned that he’s going to severely injure himself – he doesn’t seem to want to stay still._ So Roger had already made himself known to be a nuisance, apparently.

Ace had given permission, of course, both written and verbal, to allow the ward staff to _encourage_ Roger to stay in bed. Anything at all was fine by him, provided that they managed to stop Roger from incurring unnecessary injury through his own brute pig-headedness.

“And why, dear child,” Roger continued, his voice booming within the confines of the small room, “ _was_ my entire abdomen opened for all of your lot to goggle at? Why wasn't it done with keyhole surgery? You mind explaining that to me?”

“The twist was too severe for it,” Deuce said with the air of a man trying his damn best not to snap at being addressed as _child_ , “Dr. Nico began the procedure as such, but when it became evident that it wouldn't be possible, she arranged for it to be converted to a—”

“You mean,” Roger interrupted loudly, causing Ace, still avoiding detection in plain sight, to roll his eyes, “that she gave up and brought in that blond surgeon! Why isn't _he_ looking after me, hm? Why do I have you?”

And that was enough for Ace. Finally stepping in and slapping a palm to Deuce's back, he leaned in over his father menacingly and said, “he's just trying to help you, old man. No need to take your boredom out on the doctors.”

Roger's eyes went wide at the sight of his son, and he mouthed wildly at him for a moment before finding his voice again.

“Ace!” Roger exclaimed, going perfectly still and docile under Deuce's hold, pinned firm to the mattress by Ace's stern look. “Didn't see you arrive! How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see you're insisting on making these guys' lives miserable,” Ace scolded. Before Roger could defend himself, Ace turned to the nurses and, with a small bow, apologised for his father's behavior. The apology was also offered to Deuce, who waved it away airily.

“Don't worry about it,” he said casually, reaching for the blood pressure monitor on the side beside Roger's bed, “what’s bothering me is the amount of energy he has. It’s not normal at all. People usually take days to even think about sitting up in bed.”

“You hear that, Dad?” Ace shot at Roger, who was now the very picture of a model post-op patient laying quietly in his bed, a sombre, dignified expression masked firmly in place, “you’re being a pain in the ass. You’re going to get yourself hurt and then you’ll be an even _bigger_ pain in the ass. Just calm down for once in your life and let people take care of you.”

It wasn’t hard to guess why Roger was being such a difficult patient, though. Some things were harder to get over than others, manifesting as troublesome attitudes or unusual moods in those who experienced them. And for Roger, Ace knew, the mere prospect of being admitted to a hospital was one that he found neither enticing or pleasant in the slightest.

But this was _different_ , Ace wanted to snap at his father. _He_ had survived his surgery. _He_ wasn’t going to die from blood loss on a theater table while his son was safely delivered. And he _would_ go home with his son, and would get to speak to his son, and get to watch his son grow older.

However, knowing this did not make the job of keeping Roger calm any easier.

Yet somehow, Ace found himself to be successful. With a dramatic sigh and a deep, heavy frown, Roger agreed to have his blood pressure taken by the nurse while Deuce filled in his obs chart, narrating each little section of the sheet to Ace as he watched with keen interest.

“This here’s the section where we record the patient’s oxygen saturation levels,” Deuce explained in what was perhaps the cutest, most enthusiastic manner Ace had ever seen, the doctor clearly being thrilled to have found himself an unlikely student, “and the rest is pretty self-explanatory, really. Oh, and since he’s conscious, we can ask how he’d currently score his pain levels—”

“How’re you feelin’, Dad?” Ace asked, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Deuce’s eager expression.

“Fuckin’ awful,” Roger snapped at once, keeping still for long enough to have an IV drip hooked up to him. “What’s this for, anyway?”

“You’re dehydrated,” Deuce answered, “so you need some fluids in you pretty quickly.”

Roger seemed like he was going to argue that he was wrong, but one look from Ace silenced him into grumbling submission once again. “Score me at a 6 outta 10,” Roger shot at Deuce, wincing yet trying his damn hardest to pretend that he hadn’t, of course, because Roger was _strong_ and he was _powerful_ and he wasn’t going to succumb to something as _trivial_ as open abdominal surgery, “don’t want you lot thinking I’m dramatic or something. I can cope with pain.”

The look that Deuce gave Ace almost had him laughing out loud at the sheer levels of _is he fucking serious?_ to it.

This doctor was _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where Ace gives the ward staff permission to physically stop Roger getting tf out of bed wouldn't happen in real life due to Roger having capacity. However, Roger also wouldn't have the strength to flail and fight the staff just a day after such extensive surgery, nor would an FY1 like Deuce be made to work through the night and then a full day shift (I hope, but you never know) so... this is fiction ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ take it with a pinch of salt.
> 
> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	2. Chapter 2

This doctor, it seemed, was not going to leave Ace alone.

The thought of him, that was. Not the man himself, no – Deuce had not been around when Ace had dropped by the following day, much to his dismay (and much to Roger’s obvious delight). While hoping to get the chance to speak to the junior doctor whose surname Ace still hadn’t caught, Ace had instead been treated to a lengthy rant about why the nurses were obviously trying to kill Roger.

“I heard they get _huge_ pay-outs if a patient dies on a non-emergency ward,” Roger had said with a grim nod, his plastic cup crinkling and popping unpleasantly as he squeezed it in his fingers, “that’s why the head nurse keeps sticking her beak in here every hour – she wants me first, see, she wants to get my great big sack of money before the others can vulture their way in.”

“Is that right?” Ace had asked vaguely, watching a junior doctor in scrubs trot past, his racing heart calming when his gaze fell on her long blonde ponytail. “You really think these guys get money if someone pops it under their care?”

“That’s what the big guy in room B said,” Roger had snorted unapologetically, fixing Ace with a piercing stare that was ignored entirely, “Garp. Your buddy the baby doc isn’t as innocent as you might think. What’ve you got to say about _that?”_

Roger’s face had shone with triumph when Ace looked back at him, a frown pulling at his brows. “I think you should probably stop believing things you hear from random old men who’re stuffed to the brim with painkillers, Dad,” he’d sighed, dropping his chin to his fist and refusing to look away.

He couldn’t say he cared for that knowing glint in his father’s eye at the mention of Deuce… and the speed with which Ace had snapped to attention at the mere mention of him. Trust Roger to have noticed that the only member of staff that Ace talked to was Deuce. Not out of rudeness or dislike for the healthcare assistants and nurses, it was just that… Deuce was relatable.

That was it.

“Think about it,” Ace had then continued over the top of Roger’s disparaging sigh, “if these guys were getting cash in hand for letting you die, they wouldn’t be stopping you from getting out of bed. They’d let you roam the halls as you please, let you pass out from the inevitable blood loss, and then dramatically lament your untimely passing.” When Roger didn’t drop the smug grin, Ace added, “if they got anything other than a mountain of paperwork and maybe the occasional inquest out of patients popping their clogs, do you really think any inpatients would ever leave this place outside of a coffin? C’mon Dad, I know you’re bored and determined to hate this place, but at least put some effort into believing a more convincing lie.”

For what it was worth, this bubble of clarity had seemed to be enough to make Roger at least question whether his new friend “Garp From Room B” was as well informed as he clearly projected himself to be.

It had become apparent that Deuce wasn’t going to make an appearance any time soon when Ace had gone to find a bathroom. In the middle of the ward hung a white board on the wall opposite the busy nurse’s station, listing who was on shift for the day. Though his heart lifted up into his throat on spotting Deuce’s name, Ace was quickly disappointed on further reading and discovering his name was in the little box labelled _surgery_ for that afternoon, along with a surgeon whose name Ace didn’t recognise.

So much for getting to talk to the doctor again.

By the fourth day after Roger’s survival of the operating table, Ace thought it fair to admit that the ward was an exceedingly boring place. There wasn’t much to do other than read books, watch TV, play on phones or tablets, and watch the staff go about their duties. If they were lucky (and Ace used that word incredibly loosely and with a sick twisting feeling in his chest), they might get to witness a fellow patient trip over or lock themselves in the bathroom by accident. The highlight of the last 24 hours, according to Roger, was the moment when one of the porters had taken the wrong elderly patient off to theater, only to return her a few minutes later while sheepishly explaining that no, he wasn’t here to take her to see her son in the hospital’s coffee shop.

No wonder Roger was starting to go a little stir-crazy in his room.

“Garp said,” Roger announced loudly before Ace had even pulled up a chair beside his bed, “that he misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood what?” Ace asked, though he wasn’t sure this was a conversation he wanted to be having without a third-party present to witness. This _Garp_ character didn’t sound like the type of person that Roger should be socialising with in his vulnerable condition, in Ace’s opinion.

“That thing about the staff getting rich off us kicking it,” Roger nodded solemnly.

“Really?”

It didn’t seem at all likely that Garp was going to offer anything sensible as an alternative, given how he had come up with such a ridiculous story in the first place, but perhaps Roger was about to shock and amaze him.

Although, truth be told, Ace would have much preferred to return to Doctor Spotting instead of listening to whatever nonsense this Garp had conjured up, but Deuce was once again missing from the ward. On checking the board on his way in today, Ace had spotted his name on the list of doctors who had been present for morning ward round, but despite his casual peering into each of the bays and side rooms, Ace hadn’t been able to spot the elusive doctor.

“Garp thinks,” Roger lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that the nurses have a pool going on who’s gonna drop first. The babies are in on it too, I know they are; don’t roll your eyes at me,” he snapped, though Ace carried right on with it, “that kid doctor who keeps asking about you was _definitely_ talking about me with the girl baby doctor this morning—”

“Because you’re their _patient_ ,” Ace groaned into his palms, thoroughly done with Roger’s fanciful imagination running riot with his boredom and loathing for hospitals, painting his mind with the most absurd ideas, “they _have_ to talk about you.”

“Yes, but right outside my door?” Roger countered; Ace’s fingers reflexively tightened into his hair.

“Yes, right outside your door.” Ace’s words were muffled into his hands, but Roger’s indignant sniff was all he needed to be assured that his father had understood him, “seeing as one of them then came in to talk to you… didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Roger said stiffly, “yes, as a matter of fact, they did. That irritating boy clearly needed the back-up of the girl doctor—”

“—or they were handing over to each other—”

“Because then!” Roger barked, making Ace jump violently and look around for his attacker, “ _then_ they _both_ came in, so you can wipe that look off your face, son, and they asked how I was!”

“Oh no, imagine the audacity.”

Despite his irritation and short fuse when it came to Roger and his less than accommodating behavior in the hospital, Ace still couldn’t bring himself to blame his father for the way he acted. Though sympathy wasn’t what bloomed in Ace’s heart on enduring Roger’s fifteen-minute rant about Dr Nico and her clicking high heels, it lurked somewhere just underneath the pointed sighs and exasperated, snappy retorts. Roger’s hate for hospitals was logical and valid, though entirely unhelpful in his current condition, and Ace could understand his distress well enough… no matter how misplaced it was, given the differences in circumstances.

And it also made spending prolonged amounts of time in his company rather painful affairs at the moment, hence why Ace had excused himself and now stood alone on the cool landing of the seventh floor, facing the cold gray doors of one of the elevators.

The whole of the landing was miserable and tired-looking, much like the tiny, cramped waiting room stuffed into the corner of the general surgery ward. Though an array of brightly-colored posters and flyers had been tacked to a cork noticeboard next to the locked double doors of the ward, their vibrant cheerfulness only served to further enhance the dreary, unwelcoming feeling of the silent space.

Ace inhaled deep; held it; and sighed through a long, whistling breath.

Provided that Roger stayed still and let himself heal, he was to be discharged back home within the next week, hopefully, and would then suffer the pleasure of having Ace move back in and wait on him, hand and foot. When she had popped her head round the door of the side room, the blonde female junior doctor (who, though nice enough, was categorically was not Deuce) had asked them if there was a plan in place on discharge. Roger had been only too thrilled to relay and elaborate on Ace’s vague, “yeah, I’ll take care of you,” that he had offered the day before.

Ace sighed hard again through his nose at this thought, the vividly clear image of Roger ringing an obnoxious little bell to summon his son one that dominated all other thoughts in his head. No, Roger wouldn’t be as insufferable once home as he was on the ward, but Roger was still Roger, regardless of where he was propped up on a pile of pillows. Temporarily moving back into Roger’s home wasn’t a thought that filled Ace with endless joy, either – they shared a far better relationship when there were a good few miles between them, after all – but Roger couldn’t be expected to do much in the way of moving for some time.

… Or so Ace, the doctors, the nurses, the healthcare assistants and, hell, even the cleaners had to keep reminding him.

The little _down_ button beside one of the elevators lit up on Ace’s slap, and a mechanical female voice boomed, “going up,” from the speaker. As Ace watched the digital number at the top of the elevator flick from floors G to 1 and so forth on its race up the floors, he thought longingly of his early lunch of the cheap hospital canteen food he was going to gorge on before heading back home.

But the instant the doors gave a chirpy _ping_ and slid open, today's specials menu left Ace's mind like smoke on the wind.

There, stood quite alone, with a set of patient notes open in one hand and a pen being frantically _click click click_ ed in the other, was the junior doctor whom Ace had been oh-so keen to see again for the last couple of days.

It was like a light had been flipped on inside Ace’s chest at the mere sight of him; a tight band being forced down around his ribcage to sit snug and uncomfortable. There he was, in the flesh, proving himself not to have been simply little more than Ace’s imagination after all.

Obviously overworked and sporting bags under his eyes yet again, Deuce barely glanced up at Ace as he strode out of the elevator, marching back to the ward with the air of a man parading to his own death.

And, inexplicably, Ace discovered that he couldn't quite get his mouth to function. Nor his throat. No sound left him the closer Deuce drew - not a word; not a breath; not even an awkwardly embarrassing gargle, the type that liked to present itself only when doing so would lead to extreme humiliation.

So instead, in what he chalked up to a fit of blind panic and taking utter leave of his senses for the three seconds it took him to move, Ace stepped forward to meet Deuce—

—shoved his palm squarely to the center of Deuce's surgical scrubs—

—and walked him right back into the elevator.

It took Deuce those entire three seconds to fully realise what was happening to him. Shock blossomed across his tired face the instant Ace touched him and, at first, he looked _scared_ , like this was the setup to an assault that he had never once seriously considered could possibly happen _here_ , away from the drama and the patients.

Then realization flashed behind those thick-rimmed glasses. His eyes, wide, settled into recognition on meeting Ace's, yet below formed a question on his lips. Probably something along the lines of _what_ , or _why_ , or maybe even _your face has blended in with all the other relatives of patients that I see on a daily basis and I_ know _you but can’t quite place who you are_ – not that this possibility made Ace's blood boil a little sour.

But no.

On the first _clang_ of his heel hitting the metal flooring, Deuce hissed a confused, “Ace?”

And Ace’s heart _clenched_ fiercely, leaving him perfectly breathless.

The doors slid closed behind them again and, without thought or direction beyond the silent refusal to drop his gaze from those exhausted mahogany eyes, Ace, transfixed, punched the G button on the elevator's panel.

Around them, the elevator clunked back into life – and with it, so did Ace's senses.

He blinked at Deuce in surprise, flickering from left to right dark eye in search of an answer, maybe, or an explanation to what he was doing with his palm pressed fast to a treacherously racing heartbeat.

Deuce, of course, couldn’t offer any explanation, just as equally perplexed as Ace himself.

“Oh,” he said stupidly, stepping away, snatching his hand back to cradle it against his own chest as if touching this virtually unknown junior doctor was to risk physical injury, “uh, wow, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was—”

“What's going on?” Deuce interrupted, the shock slowly morphing into something acutely more professionally-orientated, a frown creasing his brow. “I need to get back to the ward. What is this?”

That, Ace thought, was a brilliant question.

“I don't know,” he admitted, “I just saw you and moved without thinking, I guess. I've been looking out for you the past couple of days,” he added hurriedly, as if confessing he had been searching for the doctor whose small smile and open delight at the coffee handed to him on that first day was in any way not creepy, “I haven't seen you anywhere, so I just—I dunno—I moved without thinking.”

It was Deuce's turn to look downright embarrassed all of a sudden. As the elevator slid to a stop and the mechanical voice overhead bellowed, “ground floor,” Deuce dropped his gaze to rest somewhere around Ace's knees instead.

“Even so,” he muttered, almost drowned out by the clatter of the doors sliding open behind Ace, “you shouldn't have—I need to get back, or they'll get angry—and that's just _weird_ , isn't it?” He finished with a touch of desperation, almost as if – and Ace was _sure_ he was reading him wrong here – Deuce was flattered, yet felt he shouldn’t be.

 _Cute_.

“Totally weird,” Ace agreed wholeheartedly with an exaggerated nod, “weirder than a weird thing that’s weird.”

But before he had a chance to fully reel off just exactly how strange and inappropriate it was for him to be essentially kidnapping a doctor with surprisingly little effort, Ace glanced over his shoulder to find a sizable crowd of people waiting to fill the elevator. Visitors with varying degrees of curiosity on their faces mingled with staff of all sorts of occupations, judging by their various colors of uniform. Not one of them looked particularly thrilled to find the current occupants of the elevator in the throes of a gripping conversation.

“C'mon, let's go,” Ace said quickly, turning to exit, “we're blocking the way.”

It was only once they had hastily got out of the way with a few mumbled apologies to the more harassed-looking of staff that it dawned on Ace – and Deuce too, judging by the click of his tongue and wistful gaze back at the rattling elevator – that they could have simply announced they'd made a mistake and intended to ride the elevator back up to the wards again.

Oops.

But hey, this worked out better for Ace—

—although he was reasonably certain that Deuce did not feel quite the same level of glee.

“They'll be expecting me back any minute,” Deuce sighed, looking anxious rather than angry, which Ace was guiltily thankful for, “I only left to take some samples down to the lab... the runners are stupidly thin on the ground...”

“And the doctors aren't?” Ace asked before he could rein himself in. Deuce looked at him, startled, and Ace sincerely wished he _wouldn't_ because that openly unguarded _something_ in his expression could really do some seriously awful things to a man's heart. “I mean,” he scrambled for words, an event in itself one that was unusual for him and left him feeling unnervingly wrong-footed, “never mind. Look.” He took a deep, calming breath – one that filled him all the way down to the tips of his toes – and asked in a rush before he could change his mind, “I want to talk to you. Away from the ward and from Dad. Would that be okay? When's your lunch break?” He paused for half a heartbeat, then, overcome with daring, added, “could you take it now, maybe, seeing as we’re already down here?”

He absolutely could have phrased all of that better. More eloquently. Maybe come up with something that didn't cause Deuce to look at him like he'd just asked him out on a secluded romantic date, rather than implying (or _hoping_ he had implied, dammit) that he only intended to have a friendly chat in the middle of the noisy hospital canteen.

Amusingly, Deuce seemed to have noted the very same possibility as Ace had. For a brief moment he looked to be entertaining the idea, but then it was gone, firmly replaced by something distinctly clinical and morbidly _professional_.

“Yes,” he said shortly, choppily, taking off his glasses to feverishly clean them on the hem of his scrubs, “yes, I'd like that. For you. Because you want to talk.” His glasses flashed under the fluorescent lighting above on slipping them back into place; he took a deep breath, and asked, “is there something concerning you about your father's care? Or about his health?”

“No,” Ace said quickly, nerves fluttering in the pit of his stomach, “no, he's fine, he's good. You're all doing the best you can with an idiot like him. No – I just wanna talk to _you_.” He smiled, inclining his head to the side, enormously satisfied with the surprise written in Deuce's eyes. “Is that allowed?”

“It's—” Deuce nervously glanced back to the elevator as if expecting his boss, that blond surgeon, to come bursting out of it screaming about rules and regulations at the top of his lungs, “yeah, it is. There’s nothing wrong with just— uh, with talking to relatives, as long as we're not going to discuss your father's health... I can't tell you anything you don't already know – it'd break confidentiality.”

“Trust me,” Ace snorted, kindly patting Deuce's forearm without thinking, “I know everything I need to about his health already – he’s been _way_ too willing to share every detail that comes to mind. I won't ask you anything you can't answer.”

“Right.” Deuce pursed his lips slightly, frowning hard, clearly struggling to fathom why Ace, a virtual stranger, wanted his time. “My break will be before 2, if I get one at all... so if you're okay with hanging around—”

“I'm sure Dad will be _thrilled_ to have me around for a while longer,” Ace beamed, and Deuce snorted.

“Then I'll come find you when I'm free,” he said with a smile of his own.

So okay, maybe he wouldn’t get to stuff himself with cheap food _just_ yet, and yes, this did mean he ran the possibility of listening to another couple hours’ worth of Roger and Garp’s wild ideas and tales… but it would be well worth it.

Ah, this junior doctor really did know how to make Ace feel like he was walking on air, didn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm deliberately trying to keep the chapters short so I don't ramble on forever and ever :) I think its working!


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